Chapter 6

Lady Winterbourne and Miss Simmons sat on one side of his carriage while Killian reclined opposite them. It was a dark evening, and the women's faces were masked in shadow. He couldn't keep his gaze from straying to Miss Simmons. Her copper hair caught the passing streetlamps and shone like a flame in the heart of winter. She was stunning. The shimmering silver of her gown set off the rich colour of her hair and smooth perfection of her skin. Her seamstress was the very Devil, knowing precisely what to expose and what to keep hidden to drive a man insane. Killian danced on the edge of chaos.

At least Lady Winterbourne's withering glares tempered his imagination and kept him from doing something rash.

There were so many ways a man could seduce a woman in the small confines of a carriage. If only there wasn't a chaperone present. And if only that chaperone wasn't the terrifying Duchess of Dorset.

When they reached the Somerset's estate, a long line of carriages waited to offload the sparkling lords and ladies.

‘I must confess, I am not a frequent attendee of Lady Somerset's Ball.' As conversation starters went, it wasn't scintillating, but he was preoccupied wondering how soft Miss Simmons's skin would be against his mouth. Whether her scent of vanilla and orange blossom would be stronger at the pulse point of her throat.

Lady Winterbourne speared him with her gaze. ‘Something we have in common, Your Grace. Though my husband was frequently in attendance. He couldn't pass up an opportunity to play cards with his cronies. He knew your father, I believe. I was very sorry to hear of your parents' accident.' Her voice softened when she mentioned his parents.

Killian sat straighter in his seat. ‘Yes. It was a shock.' It always surprised him how the gaping wound reopened with the slightest provocation. Though years had passed, grief was still raw and vicious.

‘They seemed truly in love.' Lady Winterbourne looked out of the carriage window as they passed under one of the lamps set around the drive. The flickering light highlighted her striking profile.

‘Yes. They were very happy together.' Had Lady Winterbourne been happy in her marriage? She painted the picture of a devoted widow, but something in her tone seemed haunted.

‘Is that what you hope for in marriage? A love match like your parents?' Miss Simmons asked.

Killian swung his gaze to her. She pressed her lips together as if wishing the words had not escaped.

He felt the added weight of Lady Winterbourne's regard, and both women stilled, waiting for his answer. When did his cravat become so tight? ‘Don't paint me as a romantic, Miss Simmons. You will be disappointed. I plan to marry a woman of impeccable breeding and immense dowry, as all dukes do. We shall provide the dukedom with heirs, then I imagine we'll spend the rest of our lives happily pursuing separate interests.'

‘That sounds very lonely,' Miss Simmons murmured.

‘A capital plan,' Lady Winterbourne declared simultaneously.

Killian repressed a smile. ‘Don't misunderstand me. I hope we'll be cordial to one another. But one does not need love to find a partner.'

‘And often, partnerships are better off without love.' Lady Winterbourne removed a fleck of lint from her skirt.

‘It's all so very mercenary. Breeding, check. Dowry, check. Heir, check. As a woman of inconsequential parentage and miniscule means, I count myself quite lucky.' Miss Simmons's sharp words bounced off the carriage walls. ‘I have nothing to fear from dukes seeking dowries.'

‘You have everything to fear from this duke,' he muttered to himself before saying loud enough to be heard, ‘One might say your situation is just as lonely as mine.'

She blinked, and Killian immediately regretted his words.

He softened his tone. ‘But you are correct, Miss Simmons. With your particular set of skills, I imagine you have little to fear from anyone.' The image of her wearing that dress while holding a blade to the throat of a vagrant flashed through his mind.

Lady Winterbourne snorted. ‘All women have something to fear from men, Lord Killian. Especially powerful idiots with more money and titles than brains in their heads. Oh, look. We've arrived.' She turned toward the door as the carriage trundled to a stop.

The duchess did not wait for Killian to exit and assist her. She alighted immediately after the door was opened and the step was set. Gliding over the cobbled path with the grace and poise of a swan on a serene lake, she left Killian and Miss Simmons in her wake.

Killian climbed out of the carriage and held his hand for Miss Simmons. She hesitated.

‘It's much easier than shooting a man, Miss Simmons. You simply reach out and grasp my hand.' He smiled.

‘Quite the contrary, Your Grace. Shooting a man only requires the twitch of a finger. Exiting a carriage is infinitely more treacherous in these blasted skirts.' Miss Simmons kept her eyes downcast as she took his hand.

Her grip was firm and steadying in the oddest of ways, as though she supported him. A ridiculous notion. He didn't need support from anyone.

‘That dress is treacherous in a multitude of ways, least of all to my concentration,' Killian whispered, his lips scandalously close to her ear. He was rewarded with the fascinating transformation of her skin warming from pale pearl to shell pink.

‘Do not tease me, Your Grace.' Her voice lowered.

‘I would never tease you, Miss Simmons.'

Her lips twitched, and she tilted her head to glance at him as they followed Lady Winterbourne up the massive, stone staircase leading to the front doors of the Somerset's gothic mansion. Columns rose like giants on either side of them. Footmen lined the walk holding lamps.

A vast array of women in beautiful dresses surrounded them. Bright orange, dew pink, deep purple, blood red. None of them compared to Miss Simmons in shades of moonlight. She had ascended from the shadows to sparkle in the heavens. He could feel her nerves thrumming through her fingertips as she gripped his arm. But Miss Simmons was a brave woman in battle or at a ball, both of which often felt similar to Killian. She lifted her chin and threw back her shoulders even as her fingers dug deeper into his skin.

Courageous warrior, readying for combat.

But he didn't want to fight. They were opposing forces seeking the same goal, yet he wished they could put down their weapons tonight and just be a man and a woman.

Which was impossible, of course.

The eyes of the beau monde were upon them as they passed through the front doors and were announced. The crush of lords and ladies made it almost impossible to slowly circulate through the ballroom.

A novel feeling was growing within Killian. He had pursued women before who inspired a sense of possessiveness, but not like this. Every gentleman who stared at Miss Simmons's décolletage, every lord who gave him a wink of approval, every pompous ass who hovered near her inspired a frightening rage within him.

‘Your Grace, if you continue to clench your jaw so tightly, I'm worried you might crack a molar. It's not often you find a gentleman with such nicely arranged teeth. It would be a shame to ruin yours. Unless you're overly fond of soup, I suppose.' Miss Simmons turned to face him.

He forced himself to relax. ‘Doesn't it bother you? The way all these buffoons are leering?'

She smiled, wit sparkling in her blue eyes. ‘What bothers me more are the ladies staring daggers at me. Men are easily distracted by the next shiny thing. But these society mothers and their daughters will never forget the night the Duke of Covington lowered himself to escort a dowdy lady's companion to a ball. You'll be drowning in cards from all the dregs of the peerage who never thought to reach so high as a duke.'

Killian was momentarily distracted by her argument. ‘Dear God, surely not?'

Hannah's laughter was low and pleasant. ‘You've only yourself to blame. I have no sympathy for you. Suddenly our deal doesn't look so wonderful, does it, Your Grace?'

The orchestra began to play the opening waltz. If she was going to hold his feet to the flame, he might as well enjoy the moment. ‘May I have this dance?' Killian extended his hand.

Miss Simmons's eyes widened, and her mouth parted. It was a look he never imagined seeing on her face. Sheer terror.

‘I don't… that is, I've never… I think perhaps some punch instead?'

Of course!

Miss Simmons had never danced at a ball.

But does she want to dance?

The question burned in his mind.

Her gaze flicked to the couples gathering on the dance floor, and Killian had the distinct impression she did.

‘I think some fresh air would be welcome.' Killian took her arm and steered her to the back of the ballroom where French doors opened onto a terrace.

This early in the evening, everyone was still desperate to see and be seen. The terrace was deserted and would not be in use until later when the women had drunk enough ratafia to be coerced into making bad decisions. The sickeningly sweet liquor was a favourite of most ladies. As its alcohol content was high enough to souse a lush, the men were happy to provide it, even if most would not be caught dead drinking the mixture.

Killian escorted Miss Simmons to the edge of the terrace. She pulled free of him and took several steps away before spinning back, her silver dress swirling in a perfect circle of decadent silk. ‘I don't think we should be out here alone.' Miss Simmons raised a hand to her throat as if suddenly aware of how much her dress revealed.

‘You're afraid.' Killian wanted to provoke her with his words. A spitting mad Miss Simmons was far preferable than this frightened one.

‘I am not.' Miss Simmons dropped her hand to her skirts, reaching into a pocket that doubtless held some kind of weapon.

Ah, there's the warrior.

Killian raised both of his hands in surrender. ‘No need to attack, Miss Simmons. If you're not frightened, are you curious?'

‘I'm neither. Why would I be?'

‘I'm not sure. A sixth sense that I have. Makes me think maybe you are a bit of both. Frightened and curious.' He watched her throat constrict as she swallowed. She broke eye contact with him, and it was all the confirmation he needed. ‘I'll tell you what, I make a solemn vow that you have nothing to fear from me, Miss Simmons. Not here. Not now.'

A dry laugh escaped her lips. ‘When a gentleman escorts a lady to a deserted location, it's rarely from altruistic motivations.' Her hand remained in her pocket.

‘An astute judgment, but I will not press my advantage. I know when it comes to you, a man has very little advantage at all.'

‘Then why are we out here? Alone?'

‘You've never danced at a ball.' It was a statement, but he waited for her to confirm his guess.

She raised her chin and blinked.

I'm correct, then.

Killian took a tentative step closer. ‘I want to dance with you. But I don't want you to feel watched by them.' He flicked his chin toward the windows.

She kept her gaze on him. But her lips trembled. This fearless fighter looked ready to run. And Killian wanted to know why.

‘I don't know how to dance.' It was a difficult admission for her. Killian knew it by the hesitation in her voice. ‘It's not something a woman like me would ever need to know. Lady Winterbourne offered to have an instructor come, but I always declined.'

‘Do you want to dance?'

‘I just told you, I can't.'

‘No. You said you don't know how. That's not the same. I'll show you. If you'll let go of the dagger in your pocket long enough for a waltz.'

Miss Simmons narrowed her gaze. ‘It's a muff pistol.'

‘Of course. Will you?' Killian extended his arms in a dancing frame, which felt frighteningly vulnerable with no guaranteed partner. Not to mention the risk of a bullet from the lovely Miss Simmons. But it was also monumentally important for her to have control of this moment. He knew this truth even if he didn't know why.

She looked at his arms, then his face. Slowly, she removed her hand from her skirts. ‘I won't be very good.'

‘Well, that should be a novel experience for you. I wager you're usually quite good at anything you put your mind to.' He stopped himself from smiling by sheer force of will. ‘Be brave, Miss Simmons.'

She huffed out a breath. ‘Oh, please.' Brusquely walking towards him, she stopped just short of his arms.

He reached for her, guiding her hand to his shoulder, pulling her close. ‘You put your hand here. And here.' Slowly, he caught her other hand, her palm resting against his. ‘And I will put mine here.' He let his right hand settle at her waist. Her scent surrounded him, sharp and sweet.

The evening was cool, but he only felt the warmth of her body against his. Her skirts brushed his legs.

‘What now?' Her voice had grown husky.

The strain of music was muted but he could still find the count.

‘Now, we dance.' He pulled her forward as he stepped back. She stumbled at first and stiffened. ‘Follow my lead, Miss Simmons. Feel the beat of each step. It's not dissimilar to fighting. You read my movements and counter them with your own.' She glanced up, and the absolute clarity of amber in her eyes, like the finest of whiskeys and just as intoxicating, captured him.

He felt the moment she relaxed. Her body flowed into his. They were one being, moving together to the layered vibrations of violin and cello, wind and heartbeat.

Hannah was acutely aware of three facts. Lord Killian's body was hard everywhere she touched him. He moved with lethal grace. And he lied when he told her she had nothing to fear from him. She had everything to fear. The man was dismantling all her carefully constructed walls and threatening the very boundaries of her heart.

The music stopped, and their bodies stilled. His hand tightened on her waist.

Hannah had never kissed a man.

That's not true. The baron kissed me.

Hannah shoved the memory away. Nothing about that horrible night was similar to this moment with Lord Killian. She wouldn't let the past poison her present.

She had never desired intimate contact before. Until now. Her mind burned with questions, and her gaze caught on his mouth as she contemplated what it might feel like to have his lips pressed against hers.

‘I should very much like to kiss you, Miss Simmons. I wonder if you would allow it or if your hand might find its way back to the pistol?'

Hannah licked her lips. Lord Killian pulled her closer, his chest pressed against hers. She moved her hand over his shoulder, feeling the contrast of his stiff collar and soft cravat before tangling her fingers in his thick curls.

‘Miss Simmons, you test the strength of a man's resolve.' His voice was a gravelled growl in the dark night. ‘May I?'

The request undid her. He didn't take. He asked. And she didn't want to refuse him. A thrill of anticipation tripped down her spine. Her skin tingled in the strangest places. The inside of her wrist, the back of her neck, the tips of her breasts.

She pulled his head closer. He seemed surprised she would take the lead. Killian resisted for a fraction before manoeuvring them both to a shadowed corner. In a shocking display of intimacy, he removed his gloves and shoved them in his pocket.

‘I want to feel you.' His voice was raw. His words caused something within her to loosen and melt. He pressed her back against the balustrade, the cold stone creating a counterpoint to his heat. Bare fingers traced over her scar.

She wanted this. To know what it felt like. Just for a moment. To be lost in sensation.

Killian pressed his lips against hers. Firm and warm. He tasted of whiskey, mint, and something singular. The man himself. He pulled back for a moment, and she caught her breath. Rough fingers brushed against her skin, his thumb grazing her bottom lip.

‘Jesus, you are so sweet,' he whispered.

His lips found hers once more. The shocking wetness of his tongue as he tested the seam of her mouth startled Hannah. Sparks cascaded along her overly heated skin. When he licked more insistently, she opened her mouth, and his tongue touched hers in a silken slide of sensation.

Shifting his body, he leaned harder into her. The friction of her corset against her breasts was a revelation. He pushed his muscled leg between hers, creating pressure at the juncture of her thighs. A sweet pulse emanated from her core. She moaned as his hands flexed around her waist.

And then he was gone, her skin suddenly abraded by cool breeze.

Hannah blinked twice before the haze cleared. Lord Killian stood a few feet away, breathing hard and running a shaky hand through his hair. ‘I apologise. That was badly done.'

Hannah laughed despite herself. ‘If that was badly done, I'm not sure I could survive having it done well.'

‘I promised I wouldn't press my advantage.' Killian jerked his gloves from his pocket and shoved his hands into the leather.

‘You didn't.' Hannah couldn't explain the rush of frustration filling her, but it throbbed in her blood, creating a hollow ache low in her belly. She wanted to continue kissing him. But he had moved away from her like she was a flame, and he feared being burned. His rejection embarrassed her. Maybe she had done something wrong. Hannah hated being incompetent. Even in this.

She squared her shoulders. ‘You wanted to kiss me, and I wanted to be kissed. I find it hard to believe this is your first dalliance with a young lady. Are you always so quickly plagued with guilt?' The sharpness in her tone cut through the crisp evening, but the wave of anger felt good, powerful. So much better than the echo of need pulsing through her veins.

Her ire sparked a twin fire in Killian. He closed the distance between them, slapping his palms against the stone railing on either side of her hips, pinning her. ‘Are you always so free with your favours? That was your first kiss, if my guess is correct. Wasted on a gentleman with no intentions of acting honourably.'

Hannah threw back her head and laughed, the caustic sound hurting her throat. ‘Yes, that was my first kiss.' At least the first one intentionally given. ‘And pray tell, how can I be free with my favours if I've never shared them before?' Hannah chose to focus on his irrational argument over her embarrassing confession. ‘But I suppose now I have kissed a man, I can continue sharing my favours with whomever I like, whenever I like. They are mine, after all.'

‘So, in one night, you would slip from an innocent to a lightskirt?'

She leaned nearer to him, narrowing her gaze, ready to attack. ‘I've never been innocent, just inexperienced. Men are so quick to paint women as whores. Yet we cannot earn the title without significant help from you. If you feel bad for kissing me, that is your problem, not mine. I won't share your shame. I enjoyed it. If the fancy strikes, I may enjoy it again. Just not with you.'

‘I wasn't calling you a whore.'

‘Lightskirt? Whore? Are they not the same?'

He exhaled, a gust of warm air caressing her cheek. ‘I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I only meant you shouldn't waste yourself on someone like me. Of course, you are free to kiss whomever you choose.'

Hannah's investigative instinct awakened, dulling her anger. ‘Someone like you? A duke? A hero? Why are my kisses wasted on you, Lieutenant General?'

‘I am no hero. My blood might once have been blue, but it runs black with the sins I've committed, Miss Simmons,' he whispered, his lips almost touching hers. The buttery leather of his gloved fingers stroked her neck.

Only a wicked woman would be seduced by such words. Hannah felt herself falling into the midnight of his voice. He was a wizard, weaving a devilish spell of darkness and vulnerability.

‘Well, then. It's lucky I won't be kissing you again, Your Grace.'

‘Are you quite certain?' He moved away from her mouth, his warm breath teasing the sensitive skin just behind her ear. ‘If you refuse to feel guilty, then neither will I.' Her world was about to catch fire in the heat he created. ‘You won't kiss me again? Is that a promise?'

‘Yes,' she breathed.

‘I wonder, can I make you break it?'

She swallowed her need as he nibbled along her neck from ear to shoulder. Perhaps she hadn't been so terrible at kissing. He seemed very intent on reengaging in the behaviour. But she'd already told him she wouldn't kiss him again. Which was highly annoying. Because everything in her demanded she do just that.

‘Will you kiss me if I kiss you here?' He pressed his mouth against her collar bone. ‘Or perhaps here?' His words brushed the hollow of her neck a moment before his lips. ‘What about here?' He nipped along her jaw. ‘Here?' He feathered kisses over her scar, along her cheekbone, ending at the corner of her mouth.

Hannah was drowning in need and frustration. On a strangled cry, she buried her hands in his hair and held his face still. ‘Damn you, Robert Killian.' His name felt strange on her lips, but then she was tasting his mouth, rubbing against him, plunging into his depths, and revelling in the scrape of his teeth against her tongue.

He held still for a moment before taking control.

Hannah knew the desperate need coiled within him mirrored her own. He was a predator poised to strike. But she was no helpless prey. She met him as an equal on the battlefield of desire, and it was glorious. He lifted her up on the balustrade, splitting her legs and pushing between them with his narrow hips.

Her skirts separated them with layers of silk and cotton, but the ridge of his evident need pressed against her like steel. His fingers gripped her bottom, pulling her closer.

This was madness. Total anarchy. Her body was staging a revolution against her mind. Everything was moving too fast. Panic sparked and warred with desire. Her arrogance and need had led her down a path she wasn't ready to walk.

‘Stop. We must stop.' She placed her hands flat on his shoulders and pushed away. Her breathing was erratic. She only felt this way after an intense fight.

‘We will. Soon.' He pulled her back, kissing her gently this time, his mouth light and playful.

She almost let herself be swept away, but if she sank now, she feared she might never resurface. ‘Now. We must stop now.' It would be so easy to lose herself in the frenzy. She couldn't. She wouldn't. He was the enemy. But she struggled to remember why.

Killian froze, a groan escaping his lips. She felt his muscles shaking as he eased her down from the stone railing. ‘Of course.' Pressing his forehead against hers, they stood silent. The only sounds were their mingled breaths, a nightingale singing its evening song, and the echo of a waltz floating on the wind.

‘Will you accept my apology this time? Surely, you are owed one,' his rough voice was strained.

Boisterous laughter and male voices burst onto the veranda. Lord Killian took measured steps away from her, putting the proper distance between them, but his gaze was no less explicit than his mouth had been moments earlier.

Hannah ran a shaky hand down her skirts. ‘You deserve my thanks, not my forgiveness. You stopped when I asked.'

‘I will always stop when you ask. Although next time, I hope you won't.'

‘There won't be a next time, Your Grace.'

‘Liar.' Lord Killian's mouth curved in a rogue's smile, and moonlight flashed in his eyes. If the Devil was made to tempt, then Lieutenant General Robert Killian was Lucifer in a dinner jacket.

The men moved closer to Hannah and Lord Killian's hidden corner. The duke crooked his arm in an invitation. ‘Shall we return to the ball, Miss Simmons?'

Hannah cautiously placed her hand on his arm and willed herself to be calm. ‘Yes, I believe that would be best.' Her body vehemently disagreed.

A carefully orchestrated spark could so easily catch the wind and flame into an uncontrollable inferno. Killian reminded himself of this fact in a harsh internal lecture as he escorted Miss Simmons back into the ballroom, joining Lady Winterbourne near the refreshment table.

He had never let desire consume his rational mind. Not until this night. All thoughts of the investigation turned to vapour when his gaze caught on the vulnerable juncture of Miss Simmons's graceful neck meeting her strong shoulder. He wanted to sink his teeth into her skin and mark her. It was barbaric. And unforgiveable. And dear God, he needed to regain control of his lust.

‘Exactly where have you two been?' Lady Winterbourne raised a perfectly shaped brow.

‘Just taking a stroll on the terrace.' Miss Simmons's skin was still flushed. She looked quite beautiful in the blaze of candlelight.

‘I'm sure.' Lady Winterbourne stared at Miss Simmons for two blinks, then turned her gaze to Killian. ‘Your friend, Major General Drake, is just there.' She indicated with her fan. ‘Perhaps you should go and say hello.'

Killian wasn't used to being commanded by any woman save the Queen. Lady Winterbourne reminded him of Her Majesty. It would be intriguing to put them together. There were only two possible outcomes. The women would join forces and achieve world domination or pit themselves against each other, creating total annihilation. Either way, it would be awe-inspiring to watch.

‘An excellent suggestion, Lady Winterbourne. I shall take my leave for the moment.' He nodded to them both. Hannah's gaze lingered on him, dipping to his lips. He wished he could sweep her back onto the veranda. Kissing her had been the single most erotic experience of his life, and every sinew of his being ached for more. More of her skin, more of her scent, more of her sharp wit and sweet taste. More of her.

Miss Simmons was far more dangerous than he anticipated. His attraction was problematic, but more troubling was his growing admiration. She was an intriguing contradiction of strength and vulnerability, lethal skill and fragile innocence. The more he learned about her, the greater his fascination grew. Like an opium addict only falling more deeply entangled with every inhalation.

Distance was key. Killian turned and wound through the crowd toward Drake, refusing to look back. He could not lose focus on the investigation.

‘Hello, Killian. Looks like you took my advice.' Drake nodded to where Hannah and Lady Winterbourne sipped punch and whispered to each other. The women near them kept a wide circle, likely too intimidated by Lady Philippa to dare approach. ‘I must say, being courted by you agrees with the young lady. Whether or not she could kill someone is debatable, but that dress is certainly murdering the concentration of several men, you included.'

‘It's lucky I know how deadly you are with duelling pistols, or I might be tempted to call you out for such comments.' Killian tried to smile but feared it was closer to a snarl.

‘Stand down, Lieutenant General. I have no interest in competing for Miss Simmons's favour. I learned my lesson well. There's a reason cupid shoots arrows. Love is far more fatal than your Miss Simmons's hypothetical knives.'

‘She isn't my Miss Simmons, her knives aren't hypothetical, and we have more important matters to discuss than homicidal cherubs.' Unfortunately, nothing felt more important than getting back to her. Killian clenched his teeth. He could still taste her, and his body demanded more. But it wasn't just desire coursing through him. He felt driven to discover her secrets. How had a woman like Miss Simmons learned to fight with the fierceness of a trained killer? Why was she fearless in battle, but terrified of dancing at a ball? And how in the devil did she get that scar?

Drake tipped his glass in the direction of Miss Simmons. ‘So, you still expect me to believe the woman presently tripping over her own skirts is actually a highly skilled operative.'

Killian glanced at Hannah. She was indeed caught in her dress, grabbing the nearest lady's arm to maintain her precarious balance.

‘God, it's that woman from Lord Bradford's dinner party. Something or other Whittenburg. No wonder Miss Simmons is falling all over herself. She's attempting to escape that harridan.' Drake shook his head.

Before Killian could move to assist Hannah, the two women left the ballroom together.

‘Probably going to the necessary. Funny how they always go in packs. Makes a man wonder what they're up to in there. Probably scheming about the next hapless chap they plan on duping.'

Killian refused to engage in Drake's bitter diatribe against women. ‘Can we please get back to the subject at hand?'

Drake drank again. ‘I've had a message from the prime minister. He received important information from Lord High Chancellor Hardgrave.'

A tingle of premonition feathered over Killian's senses. ‘And?'

‘There are more.'

‘More what?' Sometimes Drake could be wilfully mysterious. Killian found it incredibly annoying. Drake knew it.

Drake glanced around him, then leaned closer. ‘More dead girls in caskets.'

‘Shit.' Killian's premonition transformed into an oily weight of dread in his belly.

‘Yes. Exactly.'

‘Is he sure?'

‘Very sure. They were found in France. Questions have been asked of our government. Rather uncomfortable questions with no clear answers.' Drake rocked from heel to toe, surveying the couples swirling around the dance floor.

A gentleman wearing a bright-purple coat with a canary-yellow waistcoat stumbled out of the crowd, crashing into Killian. The overdressed peacock carried a goblet of wine that nearly spilled.

‘Terribly sorry. Looking for a lovely little woman wearing,' the man swirled his arm in a large circle around his head, sloshing wine onto his shoulder, ‘pink feathers in her hair. Told me to meet her by the stairs, then she disappeared.' He broke into a braying laugh.

Drake stepped away from the soused idiot. ‘She is not here.'

The drunk dandy draped an arm over Killian's shoulder. Given their height difference, it was quite a stretch for the man, whose balance was already compromised. ‘Ladies do take pleasure in being chased, wouldn't you agree?'

‘In my experience, a woman only runs when she wants to escape.' Killian shook off the man's arm and stepped aside. The dandy stumbled, spilling the remainder of his wine over his bright-blue shoes.

‘Bugger. Just bought these shoes.'

Drake looked down without moving his head. ‘I wouldn't consider it a loss.'

‘Perhaps we should continue this conversation somewhere less populated.' Killian raised his brows at Drake. The scarred man nodded his assent, and they left the fop to fumble on his own.

Skirting around the edge of the ballroom toward the doors leading to the main hallway, Killian didn't have to look behind him to know Drake was following. Despite their years away from the battlefield, they could still move as a unit.

Killian trailed two older gentlemen into a billiard room. Instead of following the men to the crowded table, he drifted to a dark corner. Drake removed a cheroot from his pocket. He used a candle to light the fragrant cigar.

‘Did the French give us any information?' Killian asked.

Drake puffed several times before answering. ‘Three women have been discovered so far. Two in Calais and one in Boulogne. All of them in caskets. All of them dead. But based on the marks inside the coffins, they were alive when the sick bastard nailed them in. The French don't know what to make of it.'

‘All three women were from England?'

Drake shook his head. ‘The caskets were abandoned, so there is no way to know for certain what ships brought them to France. But their government believes they originated from London. The bodies were in advanced stages of decay. Impossible to identify. But they were all young, somewhere between thirteen and twenty.' He winced. ‘The similarities to Sarah Bright's case can't be ignored.'

‘Fuck.'

‘Yes. Exactly.'

‘Is it possible they aren't connected?' Killian knew the answer, but he wanted Drake to confirm his suspicions.

‘Anything is possible. But it stretches the imagination to think four dead girls, all found in caskets, all alive when they were nailed in, are not somehow connected.'

Killian nodded. ‘Did Prime Minister Russell give us any instructions?'

‘Yes.' Drake puffed on his cheroot. ‘Find the killer. Fast. Apparently, the Lord High Chancellor has a vested interest in the outcome. He fears it will further strain our relationship with France. He is putting significant pressure on Russell to find the responsible party.'

‘There could be more than one killer, maybe working together. With this many dead girls found in two different countries, we might have multiple murderers.'

‘Or one very depraved soul. I don't know. Because Sarah Bright is the one body we can identify, she's our best lead. I spoke with her family.' Drake angled his body away from Killian to watch the men at the billiard table.

‘Without me?'

‘You were busy chasing the skirts of a femme fatale.'

‘I was going to follow up with the Bright family. If Miss Simmons hadn't interrupted me that night, I would have already interviewed them.' He hated feeling incompetent. Drake should not have had to complete the task assigned to Killian.

Drake waved Killian's excuses away with his cigar smoke. ‘And if gold coins spilled out of the Devil's arse, I'd be a rich man.'

‘A delightful metaphor.'

Drake smiled. ‘Thank you.'

Killian tried to shrug off the weight of his guilt. ‘Did they tell you anything?'

‘Yes.'

He took a steadying breath, the smoke and whiskey making his stomach churn. ‘Damn it, man. Stop being so elusive and tell me.'

Drake's laughter scraped against Killian's nerves like sand against skin. ‘That's the rub. They told me I should ask Miss Simmons. She promised to kill the man responsible for Sarah's death. Sarah's parents aren't talking to anyone else.'

‘I told you. Miss Simmons is much more than she seems.'

‘Or she is just a woman making promises she can't keep. A common occurrence with the fairer sex in my experience. It doesn't alter the fact that we know bugger-all about any possible leads.'

‘Shit.'

‘You've said that already.'

‘Fuck.'

‘You've said that too. Their son did say something to me when I was leaving.'

‘What's that?' Killian could only imagine.

‘He said to tell the nutter hiding by the shitter that he'd still come see him at the Crown and Bull if his coin was good. Any idea what the lad meant?'

Killian smiled. ‘I might have an idea.'

‘Well, until he shows up, see if you can weasel anything out of the lovely and highly annoying Miss Simmons.'

‘Easier said than done. She's impervious to intimidation and highly volatile with charm.'

Drake raised an eyebrow. ‘Careful there, Killian. Women are masters of weaving webs to ensnare us. Don't forget, she is not our ally. She's making a difficult case even more trying. I suppose that's a woman's skill, isn't it? Complicating what should be a simple matter and making our existence as dismal as they can?'

Killian shook his head. ‘Nora really ruined you, didn't she?'

Faster than Killian could track, Drake flicked his cigar away and grabbed Killian's shirt. Drake's face hardened and his lip twitched. ‘Don't say her name. Ever. Again.'

Killian swallowed. ‘I meant no harm, Drake.'

Drake's breath sawed in and out of his lungs. His fist gripped tighter. Killian tensed, ready for the blow that was sure to come. But then his friend blinked, his pupils dilating. He shoved Killian away, running a shaky hand through his hair. ‘I didn't mean… I shouldn't have… shit.'

‘As you pointed out earlier, I've already said that.' Killian straightened his waistcoat. Both men stood silent as the fraught moment dissipated. ‘I overstepped. I'm sorry. Let's forget the whole thing.'

Drake bent to pick up the cigar where it smouldered on the wood floor. Killian almost missed his murmured words. ‘I wish I could forget.'

‘You will, Drake.' Killian patted his friend's granite shoulder. ‘Give it time.'

Drake re-lit his cheroot and took several puffs. When he turned back to Killian, his eyes were still wild, but he had recovered his mask of civility. ‘Time is something we don't have. Speak to Miss Simmons, Killian. See what she knows. The longer we take, the more girls will die. Of that, I'm certain.'

Killian wished he could refute Drake's words. But he had never been comfortable with lies. Especially the ones he told himself. ‘Then I best not waste a moment.'